Page 27 of Murder on the Upper East Side

So here she was, feeling appropriately dressed – Madison had lent her a grey shift from The Row, something she’d pulled from the back of her deep walk-in closet, slightly crumpled – but otherwise outof place. Bash’s group aside, the clientele was all much older, and Hannah strongly suspected she and Ami were the only people in attendance not descended from a long lineage of New Yorkers.

She refocused her attention on the group at her table. The guests included the usual suspects – Madison and Elle, Ethan and Bruno, Beatrice, and Theo, who was seated at the opposite end from Elle, of course. To Hannah’s right was mousy Alice St Clair from their senior seminar group; to her left was her sister Ami. Beside Ami sat Madison’s younger brother Alex and his lacrosse buddy Tyler Marsden, the junior class prankster. Bash and his older brother Edward were seated directly across from Hannah and Ami.

The Beaumont siblings had been born just a year and a few months apart. While not technically ‘Irish twins’ – not that anyone on the Upper East would use so vulgar a term – they had generally been understood to be a matched set at Prescott, until Edward’s graduation last year. Now, Edward’s status as a first year at Yale made him suddenly seem much older than Sebastian, and if one were to believe the stories, ten times the libertine.

The menu in front of Hannah, printed onLCmonogrammed card stock, boasted an Après-Thanksgiving Supper including a golden beet carpaccio, black bass over charred leeks and a saffron fennel purée, and a pear Tarte Tatin. Seasonal – but not a pumpkin, casserole or bird to be found.

The second course was on the table now. A soft-spoken server in a single-breasted jacket with a small bronze pinecone pinned to the lapel imparted instructions to pour the contents of a pot of beurre blanc onto the plate in a circular motion.

Ami leaned close to Hannah’s ear. ‘What’s beurre blanc?’

She peered inside the small white pot. ‘Some kind of sauce made from cashmere, pearls and the tears of former robber barons?’

Ami snickered, then picked it up and sniffed.

‘Is our food amusing?’ Edward placed his elbows on the table and leaned in. He had black hair like Bash, but he wore his longer than his younger brother’s close-cropped cut. He was trim but not muscular, and several inches taller than Bash. Most striking was his nose, which sloped at a sharp angle towards an equally sharp chin.

Hannah stiffened, and Bash elbowed his brother in the side. ‘Eddie, play nice. Allow me to introduce you properly to Prescott’s newest arrivals, Hannah and Ami Miller. These lovely ladies joined us just this fall from the wilds of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.’

Edward stretched his arm across the table and, somewhat reluctantly, Hannah took his hand in hers. Over the past couple of months, she’d become used to Bash’s oily demeanour; on occasion, she’d even glimpsed a good heart beneath the rakish façade. But there was something chilly about the elder Beaumont, and as the dry skin of Edward’s palm met hers, shewondered for a moment if blood pumped through his veins at all.

Quickly, she removed her hand from his grasp and picked up her pot of beurre blanc, refocusing her attention on the food. ‘Looks delicious.’

Edward shrugged. ‘It is. The Lenox Club would stand for no less.’

‘It means white butter, by the way,’ Bash said. ‘You’ll like it.’

She poured the sauce and took a bite. It was indeed savoury, rich and very good. ‘In Pittsburgh, we ate leftovers on the day after Thanksgiving. Ami specialises in a turkey and cranberry sauce sandwich.’

‘Shut up,’ Ami hissed, casting Hannah a sharp look.

‘What?’ Hannah asked. ‘She uses a layer of stuffing instead of bread. It’s incredible.’

‘My sister is having delusions,’ Ami said. ‘It’s a concern, really. Have you followed up with Dr Lee?’

‘Oh my god,’ Hannah muttered.

Edward wrinkled his nose. ‘Sounds… Midwestern.’

Ami buried her face in her hands.

‘Pittsburgh’s not—’ Hannah started to say, but Edward wasn’t listening. He pushed back his chair and headed for the bar, returning swiftly with an open bottle of Pinot Noir and four glasses.

‘Silky, with a mild cranberry lift.’ He filled each of their glasses with a generous pour, and Ami’s eyes widened.

‘Absolutely not,’ Hannah mouthed to her little sister. Ami narrowed her eyes and picked up her glass.

‘The only cranberry worth your time during this season of thanks,’ Edward said. ‘À votre santé.’ He raised his glass, and Bash followed his brother’s lead.

‘À votre santé,’ Ami repeated in an impeccable French accent. Locking her eyes with Hannah’s, she took a long sip.

‘Ames,’ Hannah warned.

With a laugh, Edward knocked back half his glass in a single gulp hardly befitting the mores of the Lenox Club. Clearly, the elder Beaumont was not concerned with etiquette when it got in the way of a good time.

Hannah pressed her lips to Ami’s ear. ‘If you come home reeking of wine, you know Dad and Yoko will never let you out—’

Before Hannah could finish, a long shadow fell across the pressed linens, and a deep voice rang out, silencing the conversation at the Prescott table.